HELLEBOSCH,
5
Someone
sings in the house behind doors that are five,
walls
that are ten centimetres, bawling,
bellowing,
someone scrubs herself bare, lets
air
loose everywhere. In pipes and against
tiles,
window-panes and thing contrary to
floor
what you call? then an echo,
a
whistling proceeds, a resonance audible
even
in hearths and in logs, sweeping via
chimney
flue over beeches, puff balls, sawdust
of
guile bug, woe beetle, tumbling on cabbages and
ricocheting
against village eardrums. Other than
this
song soon nothing will exist. Drum, air,
on
the skin round death in the fruit, fair
bursting
out of its peel, so. Hours so. Days.
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